Ode To A Banker Part 4

'Oh no!'

'But yes!'

'I'm a suspect.'

'I just cleared you.'

'Oh Hades! What's the game, Petro?'

'The Fourth Cohort has enough to do - work up to our lugholes. Half the squad is down with summer fever and the rest are decimated by wives telling the men to bunk off and repair their roof-tiles while the sun's out. We have no manpower to deal with this.'

'The Fourth is always overworked.' I was losing this dice-game.

'We really can't cope at present,' Petronius returned placidly.

'Your tribune won't wear it.'

'It's July.'

'So?'

'Darling Rubella is on leave.'

'His villa at Neapolis?' I scoffed.

'Positanum.' Petronius beamed. 'I'm covering for him. And I say we need to buy in expertise.'

Had Helena not been there, I might have accused him of wanting free time to pursue some new woman. There was little affection between the vigiles and private informers. They saw us as devious political sneaks; we knew they were incompetent thugs. They could put out fires. It was the real reason for their existence. They had only become involved with law and order because vigiles patrols out fire-watching at night had run across so many burglars in the dark streets. We possessed more sophisticated expertise. When civil crimes occurred, victims were advised to come to us, if they wanted their affairs handled with finesse.

'Well, thanks, friend; once I would have been glad of the money,' I admitted. 'But to investigate the killing of some millionaire exploitation-magnate sticks in my craw.'

'For one thing,' Helena supported me, 'there must be thwarted authors all over the city, any one of whom was bursting to shove the slug down a drain. What happened to him anyway?' she asked, rather late in the day. As a group, we were showing the publisher little sympathy.

'The first draft was rather crude - thrusting a scroll rod up his nose. Then whoever did it developed his theme more prettily.'

'Nice metaphors. You mean he was battered about?' I queried. Petro nodded. 'In various violent ways. Someone was exceedingly angry with this patron of the arts.'

'Don't tell me any more. I will not take an interest. I refuse to involve myself '

'Reconsider that, Falco. You would not want me to feel obliged to run your visit to the scriptorium past the loveable Marponius.'

'You would not!'

'Try me,' he leered.

It was blackmail. He knew perfectly well I had not crushed the life from Chrysippus - but he could make the situation difficult. Marponius, the homicide magistrate for this sector, would love a chance to get me. If I refused to a.s.sist, they might close the case in a way that was traditional for the vigiles: find a suspect; say he did it; and if he wants to get off, let him prove what really happened. Crude, but extremely efficient if they were keen on good clear-up figures and less keen on knowing who had actually bashed in a victim's brains.

Helena Justina looked at me. I sighed. 'I'm the obvious choice, love. The vigiles know me, and I'm already close to the case. I think,' I was now addressing both of them, 'this requires a drink. We need to talk about it -'

'None of your informing games.' Petronius smirked. 'I want a consultant who will solve this, not some layabout who hopes the Fourth will cover his exorbitant winebar bills.'

'So you do control a budget?'

'That's not your worry.'

'Oh, you don't have a budget. You're raiding the pension fund!' If Petronius was doing that - and I would not put it past him - he was vulnerable and I could apply a squeeze myself: 'Lucius, old friend, I shall need a free hand.'

'You'll take my orders.'

'Stuff that. I want my usual fees, plus expenses - plus a confession bonus if I make the killer cough.'

'Well, suit yourself - but keep a low profile.'

'Are you allowing me any back-up?'

'None to give you; that's the whole point, Falco.'

'I can bring my own support - if you can pay for it.'

'I'll pay for you; that's more than enough. I'm sure Fusculus will be happy to give you his usual tactful hints and tips, should I not be available when you require advice.'

'Don't insult my expertise!'

'Just don't get into any rucks, Falco.'

'Demand a contract,' Helena instructed me, not bothering to say it in an undertone.

X.

WORD HAD spread. The crime scene was almost inaccessible behind a large crowd of Aventine dead-enders who had suddenly developed an interest in reading. Their after-lunch entertainment was to present themselves at the scroll-shop like potential customers, browsing the book baskets and keeping their eyes peeled for excitement - preferably in the forin of blood.

Considering Petro's claims of undermanning, there was a commendable vigiles presence. The red tunics were here in force, mingling with the ghouls, always nosy about a new kind of location. It would not last. Once the investigation lost its novelty, it would be hard finding one of these lads for anything routine. They were mainly ex-slaves, short but wide or wiry, each handy in a fight and none of them men to cross. Joining the vigiles was a desperate measure. The work was dangerous, the community hostile, and those who escaped being fried in fires were likely to end up having their necks broken by bullyboys on the streets.

I forced a pa.s.sage through the gawpers outside. Taking more interest in the layout than last time, I noticed that the scroll-shop and a shoemender's next door appeared to form the frontage of the same property. They were part of a row of small, mostly run-down-looking businesses, some no doubt with rooms at the back or on the upper floor where their proprietors lived.

'Falco.' I announced myself to the vigiles loafing in the shop. 'a.s.signed to this case by Petronius Longus. Round up these sightseers. Check out whether anyone saw anything; if so, I'll speak to them. Make the rest clear off.'

I heard muttering, but Petro's name carried weight.

I barged through the press in the shop and into the scriptorium. The workers were standing about looking anxious. Euschemon, the freedman who had propositioned me to sell my work, was leaning his backside against a table. It looked as if he slumped there whilst under interrogation by Fusculus, one of Petro's best men. I knew Fusculus well. Seeing me, he gave a cheery wave, pressed Euschemon in the chest with the flat of his hand to warn him to stay put, and then carne across.

'Falco! He n.o.bbled you then?' The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds must have discussed me earlier.

'I gather Marcus Rubella is sunning himself in Campania, and the rest of you have forgotten how to do any work. That's why you need me?'

'It's July. The Espartos have to douse fewer fires at night, but everyone is feeling hot and stinky and we're inundated with tunic thieves at all the public baths.'

'Well, lost underwear must be your priority! And Rubella would not want you getting bloodstains on your unifonns, while sorting out a slaying. He would hate to approve the dockets requisitioning new togs.'

'Rubella's all right, Falco.'

'Change of heart? Do I gather he's been in post long enough to stop hammering everyone because he's new? Now you all regard him as lover-boy?'

'We regard him as trouble,' Fusculus replied gently.

Tiberius Fusculus, heavy but fit, a cheery soul, was now Petro's second-in-command, having grabbed the position after Petro shunted on Martinus, the previous lazy inc.u.mbent Fusculus was shaping up well, though his preferred element was not major crime but the thousands of elaborate fiddles and dodges that small-time crooks invented. Admiring the madness and light-fingered skill of flyboy purse-shifters and skallydiddlers, he had made an intense study of confidence tricks. Recognising Forum swindles would not help much here. As with all murders, the chances were that some obvious culprit had flared up and swiped a relative or close a.s.sociate in a sudden fit of pique. Still, Fusculus would, if his services were available to me, search out clues to whoever had lost his or her temper as diligently as I could wish.

'Are you on my complement?' I asked bluntly.

'For about half a day.' Not long enough, if this turned out to be the one case in fifty that was complicated. 'What's the plan, Falco?'

'How far have you gone?'

'Corpse is still in situ. I'll introduce you when you like. He's not rushing off anywhere. This lot all claim they were together out here throughout the relevant period.'

'Which was?'

'After you left in a huff this morning -' He grinned; I just grinned back. 'The deceased said he was going to work on ma.n.u.scripts and went into his house... I glanced around while Fusculus was talking. There was, as Petro had mentioned, a doorway and a corridor which obviously led further inside the property. But if Aurelius Chrysippus was a rich man, that could hardly be the main entrance. Petro had described it as a grand abode. There must be formal access elsewhere.

'So Chrysippus was being studious. Then what?'

'A couple of hours later a slave was surprised to see the master's lunch still sitting on a salver, untouched. Somebody then found the body and the screaming started. One of our sections was just up the street, dressing down the owner of a popina for a food offence. Our lads heard the racket, but did not have the sense to scarper without looking. So we're landed.'

'No,' I said calmly. 'I'm landed. Still, that should a.s.sist your clear-up figures.'

'You reckon you're the bod for it?' Fusculus chortled genially.

'A natural.'

'Right, I'll get the drinks in, ready to celebrate.'

'You're a hero. So what have you done so far without me?'

He waved at the scriptorium staff. 'I've been taking statements from this piteous bunch. Everyone who was in the main house when we arrived has been confined to quarters; there's no guarantee we collared them all, though. A couple of our lads have begun working through the house slaves for any information of interest.'

'What's the set-up domestically? Was he a family man?'

'That I've yet to find out.'

I nodded at Euschemon. 'Anything to say for himself?'

'No.' Fusculus half-turned, letting Euschemon hear him 'Tight as a clam. But he's only had the gentle treatment so far.'

'Hear that?' I winked at the scriptorium manager, hinting at unspeakable brutality to come. 'Think about it! I'll speak to you later. I shall expect a sensible story. Mean time, stick there, where you're parked.' Euschemon frowned uncertainly I raised my voice: 'Don't budge!'

Fusculus motioned a ranker to watch Euschemon, while he and I went into the main property to inspect the scene of death.

XI.

A SHORT, DARK, undecorated corridor with a slabbed stone floor led us straight out into the library. Light flooded down from rectangular openings high above. It was very quiet. Exterior noise was m.u.f.fled by thick stone walls They would baffle interior noise too. A man being attacked here could call for help in vain.

The plain approach had done nothing to prepare us for the vast scale of this room. Three tiers of slim columns mounted to the ceiling vaults, decorously topped with white capitals in all three cla.s.sical orders: Ionic, Doric, Corinthian. Between the columns were pigeonholes, sized for complete scroll sets, rising so high that short wooden ladders stood against the walls to aid retrieval of the upper works. The pigeonholes were stuffed full with papyri. For a moment all I could take in were the quant.i.ties of scrolls, many of them huge fat things that looked of some age - collections of high-quality literature, without doubt. Unique, perhaps. Occasional busts of Greek playwrights and philosophers gazed down on the scene from niches. Poor replicas that my father would have sneered at. Too many heads of that well-known scribbler, 'Unknown Poet'. It was words that counted here. Words, and whether they were saleable. Who wrote them came a poor second in importance.

The terrible sight on which the bald reproductions were staring down certainly gave me a chill. Once my eyes fell on the corpse, it was hard to look anywhere else. My companion, who had seen this once, stood quiet and let me take it in.

'Jupiter,' I remarked quietly. It was hardly adequate.

'He was face down. We turned him over,' Fusculus said after a while. 'I can put him back as we found him, if you like.'

'Don't bother for me.'

We both continued staring. Then Fusculus blew out his cheeks and I murmured, 'Jupiter!' again.

The open centre of the room was chaos. It should have been an area of peaceful study. A couple of high-backed, armless pedagogues'chairs must have normally served readers. They and their plush seat cushions now lay overturned on the exquisite geometric marble tiles. The floor was black and white. A pattern of great mathematical beauty, radiating outwards in meticulous arcs from a central medallion that I could not see because the body covered it. Ravishing work by a master mosaicist - now spattered with blood and soaked in pools of spilled - no, thrown, poured, deliberately hurled - black ink. Ink and some other substance - thick, brownish and oily, with a strong though rather pleasant scent.

Aurelius Chrysippus lay face up in this mess. I recognised the grey hair and spade-shaped beard. I tried not to look at his face. Someone had closed his eyes. One sandalled foot was bent under the other leg, probably a result of the vigiles flipping the body. The other foot was bare. Its sandal lay two strides away, dragged off, with a strap broken. That would have happened earlier.

'I'll find something to cover him.' The scene shocked even Fusculus. I had seen him before in the presence of grisly corpses, accepting them as matter-of-factly as any of the vigiles, yet here he had become uncomfortable.

I held up a hand to stop him. Before he went searching for material to drape on the remains, I tried to work out the course of events. 'Wait a moment. What do you think, Fusculus? I a.s.sume he was on the marble when found? But all this must have taken some time to achieve. He didn't give up easily.'

'I doubt if he was taken by surprise - a room this size, he must have seen whoever was corning.'

'No one heard him call for help?'

'No, Falco. Maybe he and the killer talked first. Maybe a quarrel developed. At some point they grappled. Looks as if one party at least used a chair to fence with; probably both. That was just one phase of the fight. I reckon the opponent had him on the ground by the end, and he was face down, scrabbling to escape what was being done to him. That was how it finished.'

'But before that he and the a.s.sailant - or a.s.sailants? - had been eyeballing. He knew who it was.'

'The clincher!' agreed Fusculus. 'The a.s.sailant knew there would be consequences unless this one was finished off.'

'Chrysippus. That's his name.'

'Right. Chrysippus.'

We afforded him politeness. But it was hard to think of what remained as having been a man who lived like us not long before.